


Host

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Leashes, M/M, Self-Lubrication, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas unwinds by surrendering himself to Bard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Host

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “How to train your elf [...] a little rough and a little kinky. +10000 for having Legolas on a lead at some stage. +1000000 if you somehow end up flipping the feel of it by the end, so instead of Legolas surrendering power in order to escape his own duties, he's in fact training Bard on how to be a strict king.” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22492139#t22492139).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He had an inkling of it—mortals in their land are a rare occurrence and always generate whispers. When he stepped through the gate, Feren gave him that subtle nod that could mean the guard at his chambers let someone through. He hopes for that. When he steps inside his bedroom, he isn’t disappointed. 

A broad, scraggly mortal lounges in his chair, the one his father had specially built for him out of oak and silk: a true piece of art. The man that occupies it can’t hope to match such ancient skill, though he is, in his own way, very handsome.

He’s strong, chiseled, with long, black hair pulled away from his face and scruff all around the bottom, like a dwarf without the care for braids and trinkets. His coat is warn and tattered like all of his clothes, his boots heavy and still a tad sodden from the trip across the lake. He looks older than Legolas, though, in truth, he’s far, far younger.

He is older, in his own years. And he’s the equivalent of a king, Legolas only a prince. He dons a soft smile at Legolas’ entry, and a subtle shiver runs up Legolas’ spine, though he doesn’t show it. Pure _delight_. He waits too long for these sessions, though his father would scold him for such impatience. His father would scold him worse if the full truth were known. It isn’t just the company that Legolas covets: it’s the chance to give up all his control, let his duties and worries and cares slip away. He no longer has to be Thranduil’s proud son, surrounded by subjects who treat his word as law. He’s merely a _man_ with wants that may or may not be granted. 

Legolas strips where he stands. He pulls the weapons from his belt and the quiver from his shoulder and lets it all tumble to the ground. When his hands reach the lacing of his tightly fit tunic, Bard’s lips twist into a smirk, so much sexier than he could ever know. It puts a fire in Legolas’ stomach. But he’s still steady with his hands, pulling the green fabric away, and peeling right down to the bare skin beneath. He strips of everything to stand completely naked before the lord of Dale, who eyes him with full appreciation. Then slowly, hopefully gracefully, he slinks down to his knees. 

On all fours, he crawls towards his master. He moves with a practiced skill: a hunter imitating a beast, or a pet hungry to please. His hair spills over his shoulders as he moves, his eyes kept low and on Bard’s shoes. Even this first act brings a pang of interest to him: the first step to debauchery. 

At Bard’s feet, he stops and bows his head, lowering straight to the floor. He presses his lips together and kisses Bard’s boot, chaste but lingering. He doesn’t so much lift his head as press it against Bard’s ankle, and then he drags his face along Bard’s leg, Bard’s thighs already spread and waiting. 

Legolas reaches Bard’s crotch and waits there. He eyes the growing bulge in Bard’s trousers, always excited for him, but he doesn’t kiss his prize without permission. Bard mutters, a little strained, “ _Good boy._ ” A thick hand threads through Legolas’ long hair. It pets back, stroking him like a hound, and he finds himself smiling for it. The Greenwood can be a lonely place, companionship too hidden. But Bard is skilled in this and gives him the affection he needs, still regal, still elegant, but warm and delightful all at once. 

Bard is a mortal man of many talents. And Legolas is swiftly growing to like mortal men more than would be wise to admit. Bard drops his hand to cup Legolas’ face, labour-calloused fingers curling beneath his jaw and thumb brushing along his cheek. Bard looks at him thoughtfully, then reaches back into the weather-beaten coat. 

A thick leather collar is drawn from it, black and simple. A thinner metal chain follows, the links beginning to rust around the edges. Legolas could get better toys with his wealth and people, but then someone might ask him whom the collar and leash were for, and it’s easier to let Bard bring with him crude instruments. Legolas isn’t his father. He doesn’t mind that the fabric that’s wrapped around his neck is rough and mortal-made. It’s tight, snug against his throat, but he wants it that way to give it that edge—he wants his breath to hitch when his master tugs him. Bard fastens it around him and slips those probing fingers away, leaving Legolas to gulp and test the give. 

He can’t help but wonder, yet again, what his father would think of this. Thranduil’s precious son, chained and knelt for a lesser race. The forbidden nature gives Legolas a lewd thrill. But he knows that speaking of children and fatherhood will irk his master, who can never be nearly so detached as an elf. So Legolas remains quiet, keeping his master rough.

The leash is clipped to the little metal circlet that hangs against his collarbone. A short jerk makes Legolas gasp and proves that the chain will hold another day. Bard pulls him up by that chain, forcing him to rise higher on his knees, and their lips almost touch, Legolas’ opening in hope and want. 

Bard murmurs against them, “I swear you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

Legolas answers, “Thank you,” and tries not to smile too broadly. He tries not to be vain, but Bard makes it difficult.

Bard coos, “My pretty little prince,” and brushes a kiss over Legolas’ mouth. Legolas surrenders to it, but it’s gone too soon. 

When this first started, they kissed often. There were no chains. Their hands would explore and the air would be full of praise, because Bard was always afraid to be anything but gentle. But now he’s a true _lord_ , and while Legolas uses this time to unwind, Bard uses it to _strengthen._ Legolas gets release, Bard a lesson in a firm touch, a strict hand. Now, when he speaks, his charge obeys. He hisses, “Down, boy,” and Legolas falls to all fours again, not daring to let his fingertips leave the ground. 

Bard stands. He has to swing a leg over Legolas to get out of the chair, and Legolas ducks accordingly, the chain swishing from the movement. Bard walks towards the grand bed in the center, wide and plush with carved wooden posts. Bard walks with his gaze back over his shoulder, so he can watch as his pet follows along. He keeps the leash short, leading Legolas. Legolas crawls just slow enough to keep the leash taut to savour this as much as possible. 

Then Bard climbs onto the bed, boots and all. Legolas doesn’t protest about the dirt of it. He simply sits on his knees and waits for permission to sit on the furniture, even though it’s his own. Bard looks at him a moment more, clearly admiring the view, then gives a little tug to the leash that makes Legolas’ breath come fast, head tilting up. He mounts the bed as best he can without truly standing. He doesn’t want to break the game. Even atop the mattress, he remains on all fours, until Bard tugs him forward. 

He’s led onto Bard’s lap. Legolas straddles his lover’s thighs with a warm sense of familiarity—this is his favourite part. Carnal pleasures are too difficult to come by for the son of Thranduil, especially the way he likes—no one wants to mishandle him and risk the king’s wrath. But Bard grows bolder every time, and now he wraps the leash around one fist, reaching forward to stroke both hands along Legolas’ trim hips. Bard pets the soft skin, first up and down and then in little circles, then digs his fingers in hard enough to make Legolas hiss. When Bard does let go, there are faint, pink bruises in his wake. Legolas wears them proudly and awaits his master’s command. 

Bard orders, “Ride me.” Legolas dips his head in respectful acceptance. 

Bard does no more to help him. Legolas pushes back the sides of Bard’s coat and frees the tunic’s hem on his own, slipping his fingers into the waistband to slowly pull it down. He enjoys the sight of dark, matted hair that he reveals, covering flushed skin. He wraps his hand around the base of Bard’s cock, pleased, as always, by the girth of it, and he draws it straight out into the pale starlight of Legolas’ room. He allows himself a few seconds to _stare_ , drinking in the rigid shape, the tangled lines of veins and the veiled, purpling head. It’s a handsome thing, like all of Bard. Bard says in warning, “Legolas.”

The leash tugs. Legolas obeys his master. He lifts up on his knees, running one hand down past his own hard cock, which he’s careful not to touch, and he spreads his fingers between his legs. He parts his cheeks, trying to catch at the edges of his hole—he’s already open, wet, always is for Bard: something Bard found surprising on their first time. Elven bodies are made to please, built for pleasure, and Legolas’ readies itself with his lust. Aroused as he is, his channels slicks itself with a clear, thick liquid that dribbles out his widening hole, which he holds just above the tip of Bard’s fat cock. His eyes flicker up to his master’s. They connect, and he drops down. 

Bard gasps. Legolas’ mouth opens, but he chokes on the sound, head tilting back as the pleasure fills him, the sensation of being speared apart—Bard’s cock always feels _mammoth_ on that first push, and even though he’s wet, the thrust of it is harsh. He wills himself to relax, breathes deep, and he begins to slip lower, dropping more and more of his weight. Each little patch that’s swallowed inside him makes him that much more dizzy. He can stand on a racing horse and shoot a moving target, but one taste of Bard’s cock and he’s _overwhelmed._ By the time he settles, it’s filling him completely. He needs a minute to center himself. He doesn’t miss the way Bard’s eyes rake over him, starting at his untouched cock, then up his taut stomach, across his chest and over his rosy nipples, perked in the open air. A few strands of yellow tumble over his shoulder, the rest along his back. Sometimes, Bard will fist a hand in his hair and use it to tug him about, but for now, the leash will do. It drapes down between Legolas’ nipples, lifting off just above his cock, pulled to Bard’s waiting hand. With the other, Bard pats Legolas’ hip. 

Legolas recounts his orders. He is to ride his master. He complies, lifting up to let the thick shaft slip halfway out of him, only to be devoured when he slams down again, almost wincing at the suddenness and the size—perhaps Elven rears weren’t meant to take the girth of man. But Legolas rides it all the same. He lifts up, plunges down, takes Bard to the hilt and repeats, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm. He isn’t gentle with himself, though Bard leaves him free to his own pace. He tries to keep his eyes on Bard’s face, flushed with pleasure, but he can’t help but stray over other things. Bard’s broad shoulders, Bard’s toned muscles, evident even through his clothes, and the rugged mess of Bard’s hair. Bard grins hungrily at him and moans, “My pretty elf...”

Legolas closes his eyes and tosses back his head. His wrists haven’t been bound tonight, and he hasn’t been commanded not to touch his master, though he knows never to touch himself. So he lets his hands fall to Bard’s stomach, fingers splaying out, caught under the hem of Bard’s tunic. He doesn’t dare push it up all the way, but he maintains that contact as he fucks himself on Bard’s cock. When he opens his eyes again, Bard thrusts up suddenly, tossing him into the air. Legolas’ thighs clench around Bard’s lap, but another thrust comes, and then another. He’s tries to roll his hips into them and ride them, but they’re less fluid, more erratic and reckless, and Legolas is made to take them, bounced up and down over and over. It keeps changing the angle, still pleasuring him inside but chafing against his hole with the brutality of it, and he finds himself breathing raggedly, little moans and gasps punctuating his own voice. His juices are slipping out around Bard’s shaft, making the sounds all the raunchier. His cock bounces against Bard’s stomach, and a small, white bead forms at the end, but Legolas simply bites his lip and ignores it. He focuses instead on the feeling of _Bard inside him_ , and it’s almost enough to push him over the edge without any of his own touch at all.

Bard finishes faster than Legolas would like. Legolas would ride this man for hours upon hours if he could, but mortals don’t have such stamina, and Bard has told him many times that he feels too good for it. Bard comes with a cry, reaching out to hold Legolas’ hips down. He jerks up, grinding inside, and then he gives the leash a sudden tug that yanks Legolas forward—he just barely catches himself. He’s left gasping as his hole is filled at a different angle, Bard’s seed mixing with his own juices and trickling out around his cheeks. Bard always comes an impressive amount. 

When he’s finished, he keeps the chain short. He pats Legolas’ ass, earning a grunt, and sighs, sounding supremely satisfied, “Good boy.”

Sticking a finger into the already-tight collar, Bard tugs Legolas the rest of the way down. He brushes his lips over Legolas’, and Legolas’ dignity keeps him from letting out the keening noise he wants to. Bard seems to understand, and he rewards Legolas with a deeper kiss. His tongue traces over Legolas’ mouth and dips inside, and Legolas can’t resist surging forward, trying to devour his lover while he can. 

He’s allowed a few minutes of that bliss, and then he’s pushed away. Bard unclips the chain, and Legolas wills himself not to frown. He knows Bard will need recovery time, but he still doesn’t want to wait. 

Bard nods to the side and says, “Go get your master some water.” He sounds spent and happily so, and for that, Legolas can’t begrudge him. 

Legolas sits up, pulling off Bard’s cock, hissing at the emptiness and quickly clenching to adjust. Bard rearranges himself in the plush bed. With Bard’s seed slipping freely down his legs, Legolas walks to the bathroom, his hard cock bobbing along the way. He can feel Bard’s eyes on his rear the whole time, sizing up round two.


End file.
